Four Times Ellie Doesn't Cry And One Time She Does
by so kiss me goodbye
Summary: Ellie's nightmare truly begins when Danny Latimer's killer is caught.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **Was anyone else horrified with where Ellie's story ended in the first series of Broadchurch?

I don't usually write for shows which are still in production, but I had to do something to make myself feel better :)

Unfortunately, I can't see her situation improving for a while and I wrote something which reflects my unease.

Go figure.

If you haven't seen to the end of episode eight, this might spoil things.

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with (and have no financial interest in) Boardchurch. :(

**ONE**

Is it a week day?

She doesn't know what woke her. Could've been that manky cat from next door skittling a dustbin lid. They don't feed it enough so it prowls the neighbourhood. She'd feed it if she remembered.

Not that it matters.

The real mystery is how the sheets on the right side of the bed are still smooth. Barely disturbed. Like that every morning for a month.

Has it really been that long already?

First it was 'one week since—', then 'two weeks today'. The third slipped by, mercifully, unnoticed. But now she's hit a new milestone.

A month.

Eleven more of these and that's a year. The blanket twists in her hand; she just can't see that far ahead. When she tries to think _back_ that long, memories blur and her stomach rolls.

Just like that, her past is gone and so is her future.

What did Beth say? Very far from myself.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

'Why would he do that?' Ellie hears herself asking the question, even as she knows the answer. Her shoulders slump. 'What defence will they run?'

Alec Hardy hesitates. The weight of his gaze—shrewd and pained—bears down on her and she knows he is preparing her. Again.

'The house—computer, clean. He wasn't downloading objectionable material, no relevant search history; he wasn't visiting websites. The physical evidence—the footprint, the bruises, the eye witness statements, all circumstantial. Nothing concretely ties him to the hut or Danny's death.'

It grates that Hardy is right. Her objection is obligatory but lacks conviction. 'He turned himself in—he admitted it. He had the smartphone—'

Hardy reaches out as though he wants to take her hand, but she pulls back. 'They may imply he was covering.'

'Covering? For who—'

Bile rises in her throat. She waits for the tears she knows she's entitled to. She waits until she can't deny it any longer. They've been stolen too.

'He wouldn't.'

Hardy raises a brow.

'Joe wouldn't? Maybe not'—he frowns when she shakes her head—'but his solicitor is a pitbull. I've had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. She'll dredge up just enough to cast "reasonable" doubt. They won't come right out and say it—but they'll say enough. They'll come after you, too—your relationship, the money you gave your sist—'

Part of the problem is that she can't reconcile the man in the police issue boiler suit with Joe, the man she was happily married to for more than twelve years.

They looked the same—sure—but it ended at resemblance. It left her breathless knowing that a living, exhaling substitute had hollowed out and invaded her vibrant, tactile, caring husband.

She'd been happy.

She refuses to believe she's been snared in a twelve-year lie.

'Is this boring you?'

Hardy is scowling at her.


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

There are birds living on the bookshelf. Have been for a while from the looks of it. Ellie says she wishes them well, but she knows she's only saying that because that's what real Ellie would say. That is, if anyone was here with her to hear her say it.

She pivots to stare out the jagged edges of the window, her shoes crunching on shattered glass. The windows broke weeks ago. About the same time the side of the house was decoratively tagged.

It hasn't been torched, so that's something.

There's nothing to see outside. Just a garden which is even shaggier than usual and a slate dusk sky.

It's hard not to take the attack personally. But, then, it's meant to be personal—'u knew' is not, after all, a subtle message.

The trouble here is that this was a house of happiness. Hers, at least. (It's going a step too deep to consider what _his_ feelings were.)

Truth is, whatever else was going on (wherever else), she was happy here. All her memories are happy. Carrying in furniture the day they took possession. The kids' first Christmases. Tom setting off for his first day of school. Fred's first haircut (he definitely had her hair). Her waters breaking mid laughing fit one night watching telly as she stretched out against Joe and his fingers curled over hers.

What the hell is she supposed to do with _that_ memory?

She'd been loved, hadn't she? Was that a lie too? Because none of it had felt like a lie. And she should have known that at least, shouldn't she?

She _may_ have thrown the first stone herself. _May_ have driven up late at night and hurled the largest rock she could find. May have.

But her aim wasn't great and the action didn't magic away her turmoil. Did it help the vandal who came after her?

She has nothing to be ashamed of in this house. Taking her rage out on it seems like punching herself. Having someone else take theirs out on it—well, she's been punched a few times. In her uniform days. It hurts.

Silly woman. Houses aren't the bad guys. They aren't victims, too.

Now another family is settled in her house. She hopes the birds' story ends more happily than hers.

He'd slept beside her for weeks. Fuck. What had been going through his mind? How had he held it together? How the hell had she missed him falling apart?


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

It's not defiance, and it's not any calculated plan to desensitise herself to the wider world in preparation for rejoining it.

Ellie just goes out because, one day, she's sick of the four walls looming over her, and the feeling has swelled so large in her heart and head it's pushed out any thought of why she's trapped in here in the first place.

Tom she settled in a boarding school near Bath. It was his choice and one she can live with—at least until the end of the year.

Slash, the end of the trial.

She doesn't trust her ability to read Tom anymore. To know or do what's best for him. He's lost his best friend, his father, his home in less than a year. She hopes he doesn't think he's lost her too. She wasn't happy about his decision but she's wary of smothering him. Fears struggling to hold them together might ultimately drive a wedge between them—or prevent Tom from moving on.

She could follow him; nothing is holding her to Broadchurch. If anything, the town feels keen to be rid of her.

Her own town can't wait to see the last of her.

Her eyes remain dry.

She's overstayed her welcome as it is. But moving on will require a plan, and she has no idea how to go about deciding on one for herself.

The walls of the hotel room lean over her.

Today she bundles Fred into the buggy and heads out with no clear destination. They end up in a rundown internet cafe a decade past its best well away from the high street.

At first the stares slice like razor blades; after a while she learns how to stare right back and through the ghoulish onlookers.

She does it by deadening her own curiosity.

She used to be able to spot a subtle haircut at twelve paces; the shifty giggle of a clandestine office romance. Nish bounding up the stairs only when he'd done well off the horses. Frank's habit of hugging his coffee mug close when he wanted to avoid publicly disagreeing with you. People did things—and she could catalogue those actions. Find a pattern and separate it out from all the other hundreds of little random movements people make.

Had thought she could catalogue those movements.

Obviously she'd missed a few other important ones.

Now the sharp edges of things blend, layer on layer, as she flattens the outside world and her gaze chooses to slide over it.

But it isn't natural and, while it dulls the ache in her chest and makes her days easier to act out, she can't pretend she isn't starving.

People are her 'thing' and if she can't let herself care for them anymore, what's the point?

She googles 'resignation letter samples' online.


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

'—hear it's hereditary, you know. Should be keeping an eye on them boys, shouldn't they?'

'And if it isn't abuse to leave the little one with her and all—'

Ellie shrinks on the seat, head bowed over cup, wishing she could huddle even more into her jacket. They're in a dusty tearoom today. A glance down at Fred makes her stomach clench. He doesn't know what they're saying, but she does.

They say a lot of things: that she knew; had known all along; had encouraged it …

She's not sure they aren't wrong.

You're only ever three disasters from homelessness—that's another thing she's heard. She's well past that point.

Danny … Joe … Career … Family … Friends …

Kids.

She waits until the buttoned up old ladies have squeezed past the buggy before she seeks refuge with Fred in the restroom.

Mercifully, it's empty.

She's never felt fear like this. Not once on the job.

Water gushes from the tap, splashing the mirror. Ellie catches the look in her reflection's eyes. They're flat and empty and darkly ringed. Not full of pain or rage, or confusion or rejection, or shame or guilt.

She's been tired for weeks. Ever since her first day back at work from Florida, actually. Long hours at the office away from her family. The hunt for Danny's killer had swallowed up summer. Swallowed up her. Her family. And then _he_ had handed himself in … no wonder there's nothing left in her eyes.

Fred starts fretting, so she scoops him into her arms and holds him against her, breathing in the scent of his curls.

Hereditary.

She hugs him closer.

She just doesn't know what to believe. She doesn't know what to trust. She knows for sure she can't trust herself.

There are much, much worse things to lose than tears.

'Mummy goes.' Fred has soft hands. Sentences are a work in progress, but the impish, milk tooth grin he offers her and the fingers he plants on her cheeks make it impossible to not reply with a forced smile.

A forced smile._ That's not good enough._ She has to be much, much better than this.

'Where's Mummy going?' she asks, scrunching up her face. 'Here she is.'

He giggles when she gives him her best bugs eyes.

'Here she is.'

Here she is.

'Here I am.'

And for however long they need her, she'll be here for Tom and Fred. She tidies Fred back into the buggy and takes a final look in the mirror.

The first thing she will do is cry.

Because why the fuck shouldn't she? Because that's what she bloody does.

Then she will rip up that letter, she will buy a new suit (there are some left at the house but they'd hang off her now), and she will fight to get back to doing what she thinks she was actually starting to get the hang of.

She can still do her job. She exits the restroom and shakes a little at an additional thought: can she still do her job here? One step at a time, she warns herself. This is her town, and she's loved her life here, but she won't inflict herself on it.

And if not, who says she can't take it up somewhere else?

Like it or not, she's learned some things.

Knowing what she knows now, she wonders how she might have handled Danny's case if …

Wishing is for dreamers and Ellie has never been a dreamer.

Ellie does. Ellie sees. She plans and prepares. Ellie feels and fights.

There will be a trial and it won't be straightforward.

Joe might get life; maybe the jury will stumble on murderous intent; he might bloody get off, confession and all—if the jury hears a slick defence.

It's going to be ugly. Brutal. Truths she never knew she had any reason to fear or be ashamed of are going to be exposed.

She'll live if they brand her Britain's worst detective (she's had a taste of how the national media pack work—there's no way she's coming out of this unscathed); but if they come after her for anything else … she'll have to be ready.

Because if she doesn't fight for herself, for her kids, no one else will.

Her breath and her heart catch on the way out. She puts a hand to an eye and wipes. And feels stronger already.

The End


End file.
